Tales of a Shego
by Hadley Sparrow
Summary: Shego wakes Kim up to how little she knows about the good evil game, and about the villainess.
1. A Short Intro

A/N: None of this is mine. Not the characters, not the settings, not the songs... Just the interactions.

* * *

_I once knew a girl, in the years of my youth, with eyes like the summer: all beauty and truth. But in the morning I fled, left a note and it said, "someday you will be loved"…._

~Beep beep be-deep!~

"Hold on, Mon, that's my phone." I wince from my dressing room as I hear her rustle through her bag. My hand has already shot to my pocket to silence the call, and when my brain catches up the screen the number displayed makes me weak in the knees so I sit. The motion is klutzy and jarring, and I fumble my phone. As it skids across the floor I start to hyperventilate. She looks up, clearly puzzled by her own phone's silence, just in time to watch it.

~Beep beep be-deep!~

I could die.

She eyes my phone suspiciously, and starts toward it. I scramble out of the cubicle, swooping on the device like a hawk and exiting the store, careful to throw my discarded items onto the counter as I go, distracting her and the other onlookers. I thumb the button. My voice betrays me.

"Hey—hello?" The silence on the line entices my heart. Then the static comes in Morse bits, and I am frozen, my mind racing. I sink to the ground, unable to cope. All I can hear is that horrible noise, all I see is a tunnel, all I feel my pulse, thudding in my eyeballs and temples. _Wham! Wham! Wham!_ Faster and faster until it wracks my whole body, and I'd have to strain to stay upright, so I just lay down, and my hair is blowing around me _whoosh whoosh whoosh_ and I realize that my heart has turned into a pair of familiar steel blue choppers with red blades, and I breathe in gulps. In an instant, the helicopters are on me, one keeping watch while the other descends. Men in familiar steel blue jumpsuits with red bands across their chests jump out and approach, but I can't be bothered to move. They lift my vacant body, and take me toward the swirling blades.


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Same as before... No owny, no suey.

* * *

~Beep beep be-deep!~

Well, that was strange. I glance uncertainly toward the door of Club Banana, where some woman just made a mad dash. I had tensed to go after her, but hesitated when the Kimmunicator really _had_ started to ring. Done contemplating, I pick it up absently, noticing all her stuff piled on the counter. I look at Monique who is fingering the items, and she shrugs, not finding anything missing.

~Beep beep be-deep!~

I thumb the button.

"What's the sitch, Wade?" I start toward the front of the store, glancing down at the screen. Wade looks frantic.

"Kim! Are you okay? You usually answer on the first ring!" The boy's concern puts me at ease; not many can claim such devoted, attentive friends. I grin at him.

"I'm fine, Wade, just some weird happenings at the mall right now…" As I approach the shop window I split my attention between the screen and the street. There's no sign of any rush in any of these passers-by. "So, about that sitch?"

"Oh, right. You've just been contacted for a very important mission by a very high-profile client. They wouldn't say who they were, but they're sending a helicopter for you! It should be waiting outside the mall." I listen more broadly and can hear the familiar muffled _funf funf funf_ of nearby helicopter blades. My attention returns fully to the boy on my phone. His face looks earnest, and he's never steered me wrong before, but that sure wasn't a lot of information. I raise an eyebrow at him.

"Waaaade? Tell me you tracked the call?" His somber face breaks into an impish smile, but he hides it professionally.

"It's Global Justice." I'm shocked at this. Usually the goons at GJ are more the drop-in-abduction type than they are call-for-appointment folk. He acknowledges my concern and he continues. "I dunno, Kim. They seem to be making the motions…"

I wave a hand at him. "I'm sure it'll be very interesting. And Ron?" He looks away.

"They specifically asked for you. _Only_ you." All the hairs on my neck are up, my muscles tensing. Wade looks back. "But, I mean it's GJ, Kim. They're being civilized. What danger could you really be in?" He's got logic, I give him that.

"Alright, I'm on it. Track my signal, though, and keep Ron on backup, ok?" He nods, beginning to type furiously at his keys.

"Will do, Kim." And he signs off.

I return my phone and head toward the door, waving at Monique who nods through her customer. Outside the chopper winds are brutal, and I look up to see not one, but two of identical GJ issue. This must be one hell of a job.

When they see me approach, one of the crafts descends, releasing my uniformed accompaniments. I board and sit in my indicated seat, taking the headset offered by a trim young man with bright eyes. When I tune into their channel, I hear the tail end of a discussion about the other craft, but when the young man speaks the other agents fall silent.

"Kim Possible," he orates. I hate it when they do that, say my name like I'm some kind of messiah. This isn't some movie. You don't have to flatter me. Just tell me what you need. "Global Justice needs your help. Someone has been kidnapped, and we need you to bring her back."

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I fish it out, holding a finger up to the man, who rolls his eyes. A text message from Wade tells me that Ron is unreachable, something about guards and ninjas.

"Who's missing?" I ask, partially expecting a line. Instead I get the coldest eye contact I've ever received, and a low grave rumble in the back of my ears, so distant I barely believe what it says.

"The Han."

Ron's super-powered baby sister? No wonder he couldn't be reached. His whole family is probably upturned.

I ask about the circumstances, but from that point forward am met with prepared evasions. Global Justice has always been a challenge to work around. I learn of a secret island with a secret development in a secret location with a secret clearance level. Then of secret communications with secret participants leading to vague- though fortunately not secret- instructions.

By the time our journey has ended it has become clear to me that my involvement with GJ is being treated as a pure formality. We circle Middleton a few times, but eventually end up back at my house, where we land on the lawn that bows to the winds. I am instructed to remain patient and immobile, and that I will be retrieved when GJ learns what we can do. I look for the second chopper, but it has disappeared, as my own is turning to do. I wave, and head inside to call Ron.


	3. Chapter 2

No Owny, No Suey. Also, feedback would be appreciated. I know where I want this story to go, but getting it there is going to be an interesting journey...

* * *

When I finally fade back in I watch the world buzz by me. A phone rings, and is answered. Doors open and close for those with coats. Somewhere nearby some bug emits a metallic shrieking sound. People in solid colors chase each other down blindingly bright halls with carts of equipment. Nobody even notices I'm awake.

I move to get up, but am restricted by a set of metal cuffs that rim the bottom of a pair of sleek black gloves that fit my hands perfectly, as they're made to. I'd appreciate this more if they didn't imprison me so, hands, heart, plasma, mind. The metal is held at my thumb extensors by bands of canvas strap. I must've been a handful. I almost feel bad.

I sit up without my hands, swinging my legs down over the side of my gurney, and look around for the head nurse. She's busy, and I'm not going anywhere, so I stare down one of the nurse pups until he looks my way and then I shake my shackles at him. He hustles to her, and they both start toward me, talking. She should be getting out keys as she walks, but isn't. I cock my head and stare into her eyes as she approaches. She is unfazed.

"Boss wants you." She says simply, waving the young man in my direction. He looks at me. I look at him. He looks terrified. His nametag says "Sam" in blue cursive letters that lean away from me just like he does. I thrust my wrists out to him, and he jumps back, then gestures toward the end of the hall. I sigh. He doesn't have the keys.

I get up and walk, feeling the bite of bare feet on cold tile. Bastards. Why can't they ever let me keep my shoes? When we reach the end of the hall a set of elevator doors slide silently open. I step in, but Sam opts out. Smart kid, if you ask me. I nod to him in a classy way as the doors close. The floors are nothing, and then I'm staring into a wall of glass that overlooks what appears to be the city, around midnight. It's a clever trick, really. Make the glass thick enough to give the display depth. The place is big enough for it; cityscape views are cheap a mile under ground. Only the best for the Boss.

Behind me she clears her throat, and I turn around.

"Well?" I ask impatiently. She walks over, avoiding eye contact, and unlocks the canvas straps. The gloves slide off effortlessly.

"I don't have any good news for you at this time, Shane," she starts. I scowl, but continue to listen, dumbstruck and furious. "We don't know who it was, or what they want, or when it happened. All attempts to relocate the Han have been met with failure. I don't see much else we can do, so keeping resources devoted to this much longer seems futile. Now, I want you to try to treat this like the loss of any other agent." I interrupt by turning back for the elevator. "You can't just walk away from me," she protests, throwing herself between me and the doors. I glare at her, and she gives me a look of pity. "I know this must be-" I don't even let her finish.

"YOU KNOW NOTHING!" I insist, throwing a right hook that she dodges, shifting to pull my arm. I keep my balance and throw her down. She cowers as I lean close in to her face, making enough contact with her one smug little eye to stop a polar bear cold. Before retreating I mutter at her under my breath, "If you can't find her, I will."

The doors slide back open, and I step in as she cries desperately, "I can't support you in this. You'll be going against my direct orders, and the intent of the organization." It is my turn to pity her, and as the doors close I shake my head. I slide on my boots, which have appeared in a corner, and am gone when the doors open again.

* * *

Spring in the hills of Middleton, CO is a gorgeous time; brightly-colored trees and shrubs speckling the red dust rock in some places, covering entire hillsides in others. Wild animals run freely, unafraid of human contact, but uncomfortable with it as well. Things for the most part are well-lit and clean, proudly upholding the unwritten standard of Quality Suburbs. In general, it is a place of life, and those living within city limits are cheered by the uplifting display, save for one.

Kim Possible, Teen Hero and Jill of All Trades, pace my attic bedroom contemplating all the information I have been given, both in what has been said and what has been omitted. After contacting Ron by secret-best-friends-walkie-talkie and learning that he, too, is under GJ house arrest, I offered my love and support to his family and turned to Wade for additional intel. Surprisingly, the young genius could offer none, stating only that his "system is malfunctioning," and he was unable to provide further detail. Truly feeling the impact of my immobility, I head down to help the family with dinner.

Though early in the evening, the day has been swimming by. Mom is up and reading, but not yet dressed for work; she works the night shift on Fridays. Dad hasn't come home yet, but the Tweebs have started rice, and are discussing further meal options as I enter.

"Honk." Jim suggests.

"Retch!" Tim responds enthusiastically, making a face and coming back with, "puff flap." Jim considers this for a moment, but then sees me, and switches to English for my benefit.

"I'm kind of tired of that. What about satellite steaks?" I cringe at the reference to an unconventional cooking method employed by Dad, and offer my loving, protective, constructive older-sister input.

"You guys don't even know how to work the grill."

They exchange contemplative looks, and Mom clears her throat at me from the couch. When I look over her eyes are wide, and when I look back both boys are grinning.

"Hicka-bicka-boo?" Tim asks, knowing if he voices his intent to cook the steaks by rocket flame our mother will strongly protest. Jim starts to respond the standard response, but is interrupted by our front door swinging wide to reveal a dark form with an aggressive stance.

"Hoo—is that??" I look up, and am immediately on high alert. Familiar posture. Familiar figure. Familiar hair, and skin, and piercing green eyes. Familiar outfit. Familiar expression. Familiar tinge in the air of the scent of heat. Not of burning, per se, but the nice, crisp warmth of freshly toasted bread or a golden marshmallow.

I am shocked to see her here, and she seems genuinely shocked to be seen here, her gaze darting around my family, hesitating between my mother and myself. Mom, for her part, gets up to address the Tornado Twins, shuffling them into the kitchen to provide some relative privacy. I eye the unexpected visitor warily, and she steps into the house, closing the door gently behind her.

"Sh—Shego?"

She crosses her arms, clearly not looking for a fight, and I relax a little.

"Gee, Kimmie, you don't sound happy to see me." Yep, that's Shego alright. I snap back into my brain, and play the happy hostess.

"I'm just surprised, is all." I respond, gesturing her toward the couches. She ignores me, and instead sits at the base of our staircase, drawing her knees to her body. She looks harried now that I look more closely. Her normally-impeccable hair and makeup are disheveled and missing, respectively, and her suit seems to have lost its tauntingly fresh quality. No, that's not right. That's not her suit. Something is different. This one is older, darker, and looks more delicate. Could this be formal wear? She looks small and fragile sitting on that step, which makes me rethink everything I think about her. I move toward her slowly, which she seems comfortable with.

"You don't usually make house-calls." I add lamely. There is momentary silence as we both contemplate reconsidering this conversation, but while I know it puts me in an awkward (and possibly endangered) position, I also know she wouldn't have come here if she didn't absolutely have to. The thought both comforts and chills me. I attempt an approach.

"So, uh… what's on your mind?" She glares up at me in disbelief. Guess she expected me to know already. This irks me slightly. I'm relatively well-informed, but by no means am I psychic. She's in visible pain though, so I brush it off and get ready to listen. After a pause, she mumbles something surprising.

"My daughter." My mind races for information, and after a momentary panic I realize this is news to me. I hide my astonishment and try to focus on the matter at hand.

"What… why… Are…" My mind is as blank as the expression I receive. I start again. "What happened to her?" A stab of pain crosses her face, and she looks away, her features hardening. Again she speaks soft and low, making me strain and inch closer to hear.

"She's been taken." Her expression changes now, to one of a distressed confusion. I can see she's struggling with tears. Suddenly, she cracks, and oceans pour down her cheeks. I move quickly to wrap my arms around her, sitting next to her on the step. She leans heavily on my shoulder, clearly grateful of the touch, and cries uncontrollably. Her sobs are punctuated by snippets of half-informative comments. Though the words are soggy, I can pick out "kidnapped" and "goons" and "fuckers" and "abandoned," as well as an assortment of names and lair locations she can't possibly want me to check.

I'm still unclear as to why she has come to me instead of the police or a P.I. As I've recently discovered, even Global Justice won't send me after missing kids. When she looks up at me her eyes hide hope behind tense despair, and speaks very clearly.

"Kim, you have to help me. I really didn't know where else to go." The use of my proper name has the intended effect, and I search for the right words. I finally settle on the simplest of responses, which has been my default throughout adolescence.

"What can I do?"


End file.
